


Prompt: Wildflowers

by Rufalius



Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: Fluff, Mild Angst, Post-Oblivion Crisis, Skyrim Era Hero of Kvatch, Trans Hero of Kvatch, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29903073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rufalius/pseuds/Rufalius
Summary: A brief glimpse into the life of my Hero of Kvatch post-Oblivion Crisis.
Relationships: Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Original Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	Prompt: Wildflowers

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written in response to a Tumblr writing prompt.

Elisthir shivered as the chilly morning air crawled its way through his cloak and clothes, goosebumps blooming down his neck. When he exhaled, a cloud of his own breath vaporized into the air, fading away. At this hour, the sun began its climb over the eastern horizon, illuminating the sky with glorious hues of pinks, purples, oranges, and golds ㅡ like one of Elisthir’s many paintings. 

The sunrise was the introduction to a new day, an opportunity to be a new and better person. A sign that every day could be a chance to heal, a sign that life may not always be dreary and cruel. Elisthir relished the early mornings, witnessing the birth of a new day. It was one of the only times that he truly felt at home. 

Clearing his mind, Elisthir tapped into his magicka. Slowly and steadily, a warm sensation washed through his entire being, fighting away the early morning chill. Ah, the advantages of fire magic! While he would not call himself a mage, he had not left his professorship at the College of Winterhold so many decades ago empty handed. 

Readjusting his bag and the bow and arrows on his back, Elisthir set out into the woods. As he trekked pass trees, he listened as the birds sang their morning chorus. The damp, earthy morning air filled his lungs, and his steps squashed the slick leaves. While he enjoyed basking his senses, he still kept his ears and eye peeled out for dangers: wolves, bears, sabre cats, or — as of late — dragons. Monstrous, reeking, real-life dragons that could gobble a person in a single bite — something that he did not wish to tangle with. Or that he ever expected to witness in his nearly three hundred years of life. Sure, he had witnessed how the golden avatar of Akatosh or whatever in Oblivion it was that manifested in the Temple of the One, but that was different —

 _No._ Heartbeat hurrying, Elisthir hurled that mental image into the back of his mind and diverted it to a good memory, a healing one: Faliath’s pleading eyes as he begged to keep the scrib he bought from a pet seller before gaining permission. Elisthir could not say no. Faliath’s laughter echoing throughout their home’s halls as Elisthir showed him how to make a fake volcano with potions ingredients.

Slowing his pace, Elisthir breathed in, allowing the air to slowly fill his chest and belly, counted, and exhaled. He repeated the process until he was confident he had gotten his emotions under control again. Thankfully, he was on his way for picking alchemical ingredients 一 always a relaxing activity. He loved the idea of each morning being a new opportunity to become a new and better person, to heal from old wounds, but it could be difficult to snatch that opportunity when old wounds returned to haunt you. He tried to fight those wounds. 

He trekked onward until he finally entered a clearing, finding exactly what he had sought: a wide, open meadow dotted with wildflowers that danced with the breeze’s tempo, blooming and bright. A bush full of yellow and purple flowers sat close by: pansies. Reaching out to touch the petals, Elisthir rubbed his fingers down: silky, soft…and perfect for healing potions. 

Several hours later with his satchel full of flowers, Elisthir returned to his shack. A little, old thing of timber that stood alone by the mountain pass. Elisthir and Niril found it some months ago when they left the city to escape. Elisthir had thought it was not worth fixing up. Too run-down and dreary. Meanwhile, Niril had insisted that they could make it more homely with some renovations. Thus, the two of them built it back up and now it was home. Speaking of which…

His long ears perked up at the sight of smoke rising out from the shack as it came into his vision. Speeding up, Elisthir rushed over until he stepped foot inside and there he was: a tall and portly elf with soft features. Niril turned his head at the sound of Elisthir’s footsteps, his whole face lighting up at the sight of his partner after several weeks away from home. 

“So you are still alive,” Niril quipped, placing down the spoon he’d been using to stir soup. 

“Aw, do not sound so disappointed; I might think you do not like me.” The moment he placed down his satchel, Elisthir found himself scooped up into a pair of warm, muscled arms. Niril pressed a soft kiss against Elisthir’s cheek as the latter wrapped his arms around.

“I missed you,” Niril murmured, voice full of earnestness. It made Elisthir’s insides gooey like honey pudding. Not that he did not mind any longer. 

Elisthir grinned. “Of course you did; I am your favorite, after all.” Niril rolled his eyes, but he did so with a fond smile. 

Life was hard and involved unexpected changes, some of them bad — Elisthir knew that well. After his earlier thoughts, it was at this moment that he remembered that in spite of all the bad, it had turned out quite good. Neither Gemile nor Martin were around any longer, but he was happy to have called them his loved ones. Faliath was gone too. His son, who should have outlived him by decades or even centuries; he had been half-elf after all. Why did he have to pass so quickly? Nevertheless, Elisthir would not have traded anything for his time spent with Faliath. He only wished he could have stayed around longer. It was not perfect, but today he lived an overall peaceful existence out in the Rift’s woods with the love of his life, brewing potions to his heart’s desire. He was a wildflower: life may have scattered him across the world and thrown into the wilds of the unknown, but he blossomed in the end.


End file.
